


Outfox Vol. 3: “Exciting First Issue!” Part 3 - Outfox Forever

by ExtremistComics



Series: Outfox [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal, Anthropomorphic, Breast Fucking, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Face-Sitting, Futanari, Humiliation, Large Breasts, Other, Parody, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Premature Ejaculation, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26916136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExtremistComics/pseuds/ExtremistComics
Summary: Sinister crime boss the Idol is moving a powerful aphrodisiac around town, but Outfox and Bloodhound are stymied in their attempt to stop her by the deadly, Outfox-obsessed Honey Badger. Outfox talks, among other things, with a trio of reformed villains to try to gather intel on the far-reaching operations of the Idol, leading them on a trail that begins with Sharkbait, a voluptuous mutant shark-woman whose great appetite isn’t for food, and she has a thing for adorably nerdy younger sidekicks.
Series: Outfox [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951930
Kudos: 1





	Outfox Vol. 3: “Exciting First Issue!” Part 3 - Outfox Forever

Down in the Burrow to follow up on some leads, I come across Kelly and Sierra sparring. That’s not a euphemism, they’re actually fighting. Sierra is quite devoted to maintaining maximum physical fitness and combat readiness, and Kelly herself has a broader fixation on honing just about any skill that might serve her in her one true calling: being Sparrow, or perhaps keeping the Sparrow suit warm until she can be Outfox. The dueling lovers are in little more than sports bras and panties as they flip, grapple and pin each other, which if you asked they would claim is a concession to the heat that builds in here when you exert yourself. Doesn’t seem all that warm to me today.

“What’s up?” Kelly casually asks as she holds Sierra in a leg lock. “Carla has some intel on Idol,” I say, walking swiftly to the Nest without getting too distracted by the gratuitous ballet of perfect flesh masquerading as combat just out of my view. The Nest is a bank of computers, files and displays that, when I’m the one making plans or ferreting out clues, tends to look a bit scattered to anybody but me. The first time Charlie saw how I process information, all scale models and blurry Polaroids and conspiracy yarn, she started calling it “the JFK room.”

“My mom used to work pretty closely with Idol,” Sierra chimes in. “There were rumors she was selling entire plans for heists and every other kind of crazy scheme, a whole package deal, beginning to end. She sold them through Idol.” Before Sierra was Sparrow for what felt like a long weekend, she was the Cheater, an identity she adopted solely for the purposes of helping foil the schemes of her devious mother. Sierra’s mother Parker Bradley was one of the more notable gimmick villains, and one of the few who stayed relevant after the pranksters and weirdoes largely went to jail or found better hobbies. She was the Gamekeeper, whose crimes were elaborate puzzles and games that were considerably easier to navigate if I played along with her hijinks, but most of the time I simply could not sanction her buffoonery and she made me cut an awful lot of knots. I assumed that muddling through her bullshit a little bit more slowly without playing her absurd game of “Simone Says” would make my life harder every time but cause her to lose interest in the long run, depriving her of the satisfaction of giving her what she wanted more than the money or the havoc, my following her every direction. Instead, she took this as a challenge: could she create traps so devious the only way I could get past them was to play her game? Apparently, she could. Parker is an absolute genius, and I’m glad she’s finally applying her talents elsewhere, at least on paper.

Sierra found her mother’s notes one day, confirming her growing suspicion that her game-obsessed mother was the villain bringing the city to a halt to play human chess or turn the Miller Building into a tangle of chutes and ladders. She was apoplectic, and began secretly monitoring her mother’s plans, sneaking onto her crime scenes to sabotage her games or even trying to assist me in her homemade costume. I was worried about her. She wasn’t much older than 19, and she was jumping into potentially dangerous situations with no training. Her prior knowledge of the schemes, though, made her valuable, and I only had to tolerate her thrill-seeking ways and Moby-Dick vendetta against her duplicitous mother a few times before we apprehended Bradley. Sierra still wanted to help, but I made her undergo rigorous training first, and only indulged her when Kelly was injured and she asked to fill in as Sparrow. She didn’t last long before she made a crucial mistake, but she surfaced later as Sparrowhawk, with her impractical uniform, her absurd motorcycle and the compound bow she had wanted to use as her main weapon before I listed the dozens of reasons that was absurd. She was a few years older by then, and trained, and she was still dating Kelly, so I grudgingly let her go about her reckless business, and she does occasionally prove her value in the field when we call her in for assistance.

Parker, meanwhile, found a way to sell information and, allegedly, entire plans for nefarious endeavors from prison, until she claimed to have had an epiphany. She arranged an early release after helping the police, and admittedly myself on one occasion, bust other criminals with her keen insights. Sierra still isn’t speaking to her.

“If you absolutely must,” Sierra says, “I guess you could get in touch with her now that she’s claiming she’s legit. She definitely has dirt on Idol.” As Sierra pauses to speak, though, Kelly takes the opportunity to pull her panties down with a single yank, then tug them sharply to knock her on her ass. “No distractions,” Kelly says, echoing the sentiment Sierra herself often expresses when her partner isn’t attacking their training with the bloodthirsty verve Sierra would like. “Dirty bitch,” Sierra groans, reversing the pin Kelly put her in and using her leverage to rip off Kelly’s own undergarment. I can’t see any of this that clearly from the Nest, not that I’m trying to sneak a peak or anything, but from Kelly’s embarrassed squeals it sounds like Sierra is using this position to tease the parts she just exposed. They’ll be fucking on the floor in ninety seconds. “Oh, look, you’re getting hard,” Sierra says. “Does the brilliant Sparrow forget how to break a simple hold when you start jerking her little dick?”

“Good form, ladies,” Carla says, walking past them to meet me in the Nest. “The Temple’s assassins really hate being tugged off by skinny blonde girls in spandex.”

“What do you have on Idol?” I ask, clearing the table of a makeshift diagram in miniatures of the armored car heist Aqualung had tried to pull the previous week involving weather balloons and a giant magnet. Carla plops a file folder full of photos onto the table, showing me spy snaps of crates being loaded onto trucks. “Somebody I used to work with and her two-bit gang were hired a few weeks ago to help transport some goods,” she says. “Nothing they thought was too serious, just loading shit onto trucks and driving it across town. She didn’t ask any questions until a wrapped brick of…something, in powder form, fell out of a crate, and when the plastic came loose it got all over one of her pals. It definitely wasn’t coke. She said it was bright pink, and the girl who caught some started acting funny.”

“Funny in a sexual way, I’m guessing,” I interject. A bright pink chemical that make people act funny sounds more than a little familiar after my encounter with “Cleopatra” a few weeks back. “Girl couldn’t help it, as they used to say. Took her clothes off, started humping the air, started taking care of the situation herself when nobody jumped on her fast enough. It was bad, though. I guess in its pure form this stuff is no joke. She just about had a seizure when she came, and she kept going back for more. She was downright rabid for almost two days. The entire rest of the gang had to, umm, help, and even together they could barely keep her satisfied long enough to stop her rubbing herself raw. So my friend starts asking around. They hadn’t even known who they were working for, but apparently everybody but them did know. The owner of all this product was Idol, they said.”

Rachel Kipling was the heiress to Mandalay Industries before her psychopathic behavior got her disowned by her parents. Fantome had just ushered in the era of bored maniacs putting on outlandish costumes and wreaking havoc, so Rachel became “the Idol,” walking around in her pinstripe suit and an ancient tiki mask her ancestors had illegally acquired for their private collection. After the smuggling and the dark dealings, we don’t know for certain where the mask comes from, but it’s certainly a genuine artifact of a culture for whom it was likely quite sacred and significant. Carla’s parents were a Maori woman living in Texas near the border, and her wife, who rejected the label of “Mexican-American” in favor of proudly declaring her Mayan and Navajo ancestry. She was raised with no patience for disrespect to any indigenous culture, and Kipling’s profaning of a sacred object only compounded the disdain Carla had developed even in her criminal days for the Idol’s abject cruelty.

Kipling’s gang had actually fallen on hard times recently. Her unstable behavior and frequent reprisals against anybody who failed to meet her ever-changing standards had isolated her from a lot of allies she’d had. She could have run crime in New London as we know it, but her extreme behavior eventually alienated most of the people who would have worked with her. She eventually found, though, that in the absence of a central kingpin figure, there were many small-timers who needed help and many aspiring crooks looking for work. She started a side business matching jobs with freelancers, becoming a sort of “matchmaking service” for low-rent crime. Her vast web of connections eventually allowed her to become the definitive middlewoman for not only labor, but weapons, laundered cash and other contraband. She still sometimes gets her hands dirty, and is still quite cruel to those she feels have failed her, but being the cerebral cortex of crime in New London is her primary employment at this point. She is a big target for every crimefighter in town, but Carla in particular devotes much of her time to dismantling Idol’s empire.

“I’m guessing your friend told you where a shipment might be happening?” I inquire, eager to take this bitch down even one notch whenever I can.

Another nondescript warehouse near another shady dock in the middle of the night. My nights are actually fairly dull and monotonous until the brightly-colored killers and crooks turn up. At the location, we do indeed see a truck being loaded with crates, but that’s hardly probable cause at the endless sprawl of warehouses around a harbor. Looking at the workers through my binoculars, though, they’re not exactly union stevedores. A handful of the pierced, tattooed punks hauling the cargo are still wearing work clothes, but most of them have dropped their disguises. A few are wearing skimpy street clothes, all in shades of golden yellow that don’t quite match. Some are in faux-leather fetish gear, badly dyed to match the color scheme. “I do think we can move on them,” I note to Carla, “unless it’s Mad Max night at the Irish pubs around here every Tuesday.”

The wiry goons don’t seem like much of a threat, so we divide up. Each of us comes at the truck from opposite sides, hoping to scatter these low-level creeps without much of a fight. I only clocked five or six in the nearly twenty minutes we did recon, so it takes us a bit by surprise when the interior of the warehouse yields over three times as many. What we didn’t see were the ones in slightly more elaborate costumes doing surprisingly circumspect inventory work inside, and a few more giving orders to the rest who were in better-made suits that looked quite familiar indeed.

“Boss!” one of the seeming leaders shouts, “We’ve got company.” “Honey Badger has Freekies now?” Carla blurts out as the gang swarms us.

The Freekies are, collectively, a litany of different street gangs that prowl different parts of New London, each one themed to a different patron villain, or regrettably certain heroes. How connected they really are to their inspiration varies. Some of the minor villains with devoted followings appreciate the attention, and use their devotees directly as their own personal gang. Heroes who draw this sort of following usually do their best to dissuade them, although some have had success embracing them to try to turn their efforts toward something less destructive. Others tried that tactic, and were met with less success. Some villains don’t like the idea much either. Dressing up as Fantome is notoriously dangerous in this town, but plenty of rebellious young people give it a shot anyway.

As with Freekies in general, the extent to which these lot are dressed as Honey Badger varies dramatically. The apparent top dogs are in actual replicas of her costume, although only one is any good. One girl is just wearing a skimpy yellow bikini and Crocs, but seems to know how to swing a pipe wrench, so I doubt she gets much flak for it.

Carla and I acquit ourselves pretty well, the amateurish goons not having a great amount of actual fighting ability. Many Freekies are less looking for a fight, though, and more for a sort of sadomasochistic dance of sex and violence. One girl mimes humping Bloodhound’s ass as she tangles with an actual opponent. One of mine keeps doing little but grabbing at my breasts, getting close enough at one point to lick the entire side of my face. Most of the members of the gangs just get off on getting kicked around by costumed heroes, or getting one good hit in themselves. Two of the thugs that got knocked down early are already making out on the ground, one just about to slide into third base.

I feel an arm catch my neck, pulling me sharply backward. This one must have taken some actual karate lessons at some strip mall dojo. “It’s been too long,” a familiar voice whispers into my ear in an accent I’ve never quite been able to place. I find myself dragged quite quickly into a lonelier corner of the building, leaving Carla alone with the entire gang. Honey Badger, the genuine article, has me now.

I toss myself onto my back, hurling Badger onto the floor as hard as I can manage. I break her hold and get onto my feet, but she matches my speed exactly and we’re quickly trading jabs and circling each other, waiting for any second of hesitation to strike. Honey Badger’s own costume is itself an imitation. Apart from the goldenrod color scheme, the razor-sharp talons on her fingers and a few other details, her suit is mine exactly. This is by design. Those claws pass very near my face, and would likely have connected if she weren’t taunting me, unwilling to risk marring my face. I wouldn’t be her perfect woman anymore.

“I miss this, Fox,” she says with a nearly hungry intensity. “I wish we could do things other than fight, but I’d still want to have us throw each other around every so often, trade some kicks and scratches, just for fun.” She swipes her claws at me again, this time making contact, but only to rip a chunk of fabric off of my chest, exposing much of my left breast. “Oh no,” she mock-pouts, “we don’t match anymore.” She tears her own suit open, exposing quite a bit more than the slashes on mine. “Much better.”

I take the time she wasted exposing herself to move forward, attempting to grab her, but this provocative display is a double-bluff, tricking me into making the first move. She grabs my outstretched arm and uses my momentum to hurl me onto the ground. Lifting her legs into the air, she drops herself with expert precision, landing her crotch exactly on my face without snapping my neck. “This is where you belong, don’t you know?” she says. I send a knee into her back, and she probably takes a hell of a hit, but she isn’t easily distracted. She grabs my legs behind her back, putting all her strength into keeping me where I am. I know the next step of this dance.

With the greatest eagerness I can possibly fake, I open my mouth and set my tongue to work on the lycra-wrapped vulva being pressed into my face. I even grab the tops of her thighs with my hands, pulling her down harder onto me so I can ensure she feels every flick of my tongue even through the suit. “I know your tricks,” Honey Badger says, trying to sound stoic through her obvious arousal. She’s been damp the entire time she’s been here, but the moment I started working on her she soaked her knockoff garment like a Hoover Dam built in crepe paper. This wouldn’t have the same effect on me. There’s a patch of Kevlar-backed leather over my twat, but most of the armored parts of my costume are simple fabric on hers. She relies on speed and agility over any ability to take a hit, and she doesn’t like restricting access to her erogenous zones during a fight. This is sex, to her.

She does know this is a ploy, but after a few seconds she quickly abandons any attempt to maintain control over me. She retains her hold on my legs, but apart from that her only motions are to lean into the thrill-ride my face is providing. “This is divine,” she moans, “but I need more. Give me more.” I know what she wants, and despite the strategic nature of my current activity, what she wants is starting to form a visible tent behind her back. Once it reaches sufficient length, my tip starts to poke into the tight cleft that her hold has created between my thighs. The pressure is just enough to make my body quiver from the sensation, and she notices.

“My lady’s sword comes unsheathed,” she whispers with great enthusiasm. “Plunge your dagger in my heart,” she pleads, “vanquish my beast with your Excalibur.”

Honey Badger was once Sister Debra, the Temple assassin who replaced Mother Eve’s own daughter Sister Lilith when she turned her back on the group. Debra was fascinated by America’s unusually great number of superheroes, and secretly longed to be one. The first time we fought, she became smitten with Outfox in particular. When I broke up the Temple’s plot, she told me she intended to defect and begged me to take her with me. Assuming her intention was to do good, I obliged, and the woman now known as “Debra Foxtrot” took the costumed identity Honey Badger, starting out as a valued associate of my operation. Her methods were brutal, though, and she resisted any attempt by me to restrict her violence even as she continually tried to worm her way into my bed. Seeing her obsessive nature and her immediate infatuation with me, I spurned her sexual advances even as I tried to guide her. Evidently, her passion for heroics was more rooted in a lust for combat and a dangerous attachment she had formed to me than a desire to oppose the forces of evil. I bluntly told her, eventually, that I couldn’t associate with her anymore, but wouldn’t give her up to the authorities as long as she quit her vigilante violence. Instead, she started outright soliciting contracts on the lives of those she deemed “worthy” of death, and we became bitter enemies, at least as far as I’m concerned. I just want all that to be clear in the event that I end up losing control and sticking it in her, which I do have to admit has happened once or twice.

My first tactic is simply to finish her off without the use of anything but my mouth. Technically, this succeeds. She lets loose a positively gushing climax that at first I am certain will prove advantageous, but she immediately begins pressing herself back down onto me. “More” is all she says, and when I initially don’t continue my efforts, she starts chanting it over and over again with impetuous eagerness. I comply for the moment, and by the time I’ve decided what to do next she’s let out another orgasm, but never stops pleading for more. I furiously pat her thighs, signaling that I need to come up for air. She pulls away just enough for me to speak, and I simply say, “My turn.” She gladly steps off of me, lays herself prone on the ground with her head between my legs, and she uses her talons to snip a hole in my suit just behind my balls. She didn’t seem to interpret my request the way I intended it.

I give my “matching set” roughly equal attention when I can, getting fucked just as much as I fuck, even though if I’m being honest I usually prefer being penetrated anally to vaginally, unless I’ve been neglecting my “Foxhole” recently. What I get very infrequently is cunnilingus, though, especially without anything else being stimulated. This is by choice. As pleasurable as it is, having those parts stimulated without any action for my cock is just too distracting to let myself focus on the orgasm, and it rarely happens. Having a solely vaginal orgasm does make my dick go off just fine, and it’s an interesting sensation, like a hands-free prostate orgasm, but not quite the same. It’s just difficult to attain, because all I can think about is how much I want my other toys played with.

This situation is not that. This is worse, as the feeling of having my pussy eaten with such expertise and joy is making other things rock hard, and my suit is not built to contain a full erection. The tip of my erection feels like it’s being stepped on. She’s going to eat me like apple pie for the next week if I let her, and no relief is going to come. I could free “the Foxpole” myself, but I’m cautious at the moment about doing anything she doesn’t want me to do. If she wanted my cock out, she’d take it out. She also still has those talons on her nails, and she is buried from eyes to chin in my crotch, so if I displease her, things could go badly, as much as she is convinced she adores me. The plan was that letting her wring an orgasm out of me might lower her defenses a touch, but that can’t happen if she keeps me at the edge forever with my cock not only unloved but trapped.

“Debra,” I groan, “I can’t cum. I can’t. It’s so good, but you have to let my cock out.”

I can only see Badger’s eyes, but her grin is apparent even in those. “Sounds like a challenge,” she lets out between oral assaults. “It’s not going to happen, Honey,” I squeeze out between gasps for air, her endless stimulation making my body go into fits. “I can feel myself hitting the verge. I can’t do it.”

She doesn’t answer again, but she does respond, attacking her sacred duty with a vigor that made her previous efforts seem almost lethargic. This crazy bitch is really going to do it.

I feel a sensation I’d almost forgotten entirely for the first time in years, a spark on the tip of my clit lighting a trail of gunpowder that begins in my interior reaches but quickly soars up my cock as well. I don’t think I’ve ever squirted without penetration before, but both of my organs shoot off like solar flares in perfect sync. My legs kick out so hard I almost dislocate a hip. As busy as Carla and her opponents certainly are, I doubt they miss the shriek that flies out of me. I’m certain Debra didn’t either, but she doesn’t break her stride for a second, continuing to devour me with constant fervor all the way through my climax.

“Debra, you can’t,” I say, failing to get out any other sounds as her efforts against my overstimulated pussy begin to border on painful. I can squeeze out several orgasms with little problem by almost any method, but there is no way she’s going to repeat the miracle she just performed.

It feels pretty amazing, though.

“Honey, not like this, it’s not going to-“ I sputter, getting lost quickly in a torrent of gasps and sputters and girlish squeals. My dick is less hard than it was before, though, so the distracting pain and lack of stimulation is less of an issue. Fuck. She’s actually going to do it, isn’t she?

The second climax isn’t more intense, but for reasons I can’t necessarily explain, it is considerably longer in duration. Every muscle I have spasms in tight clenches, like she’s put a live wire up my twat. This goes on for almost ten seconds before I notice one other difference: my dick isn’t cumming. It gets a bit harder, but this orgasm seems to confine itself to my inner spots, a thing I very rarely experience. Eventually, I stop convulsing, and a gradual easing of her tongue work indicates Debra has gotten what she wanted.

“I hate to admit it, Badger, but that was…”

She’s gone. I look up to see her gloating over her fallen enemy, but she isn’t. She’s nowhere.

I get onto my rubbery legs, cautiously at first, but she really is no longer there. I step quietly back to where Carla was tangling with that mob of goons, but they’re all gone too. One has stayed behind, the little monster in the bikini with the wrench, but she’s definitely not putting up a fight. She’s bent over one of the crates, bottoms at her ankles, as Carla hovers her erect cock over the skinny ass of the aspiring thug. Carla notices my presence, but sees my total exhaustion and doesn’t bother inviting me into these “disciplinary proceedings.”

“You don’t even deserve to get fucked, street trash,” Carla hisses with deliberately exaggerated contempt. “Put it in me, supercunt,” the bargain-bin Freekie demands. “Split me open, you fucking pussy.”

Carla slides nearly her whole length into the thug’s ravenous opening in one deliberately ungentle plunge. “Look how wet you are, you little freak,” she says. “Your pussy really wants some big, mean ‘supercunt’ to come punish it, doesn’t it?” “Harder, you fucker! Put it in me!” the rabid fangirl pleads.

“I’m not interested in your saggy little pussy, street trash. I’m just getting lubed up with your pathetic love juices. You just completely cream yourself when you think about getting railed by a genuine superhero, don’t you? Tough luck tonight, new meat. I just need to get good and slippery.”

Bloodhound very quickly withdraws, her column of pure steel visibly shining with the excitement of this overzealous dilettante. She carefully aligns herself with a different hole, and pushes inward much more gingerly.

“You need it up the ass,” she grunts. “You need to learn your lesson about being some spandex maniac’s foot soldier.”

“Faster!” she responds. “Turn me inside-out you limp-dick fucking wimp!”

Carla loves community outreach.

Carla seems to experience less resistance than she expected from the early-twenty-something’s hole, probably a more experienced passage than one might expect from the girl’s mall-punk look, including her slender frame and suitably firm but petite butt. These girls get up to some crazy shit, for all their suburban boredom and hollow pretensions of nihilism. For every Freekie who gets shy once shit gets real, there are two who legitimately do embrace this lifestyle to raise hell, and for all we know she gets assfucked on a nightly basis by upstart vigilantes and rival gang members, whether or not they know how badly she wants it. This ease of penetration allows Carla to go truly berserk on her unruly subject, pounding her with tip-to-base strokes at a rate I could barely handle while the wild thing she’s “turning inside-out” alternately winces at the cruelty of this hammering and screams for harder, for faster, for more.

Carla is eager to oblige the Freekie her demands for greater heights of savagery until she literally cannot go any further herself. On the average woman, she’d be causing permanent damage. “Listen, psycho. I really hope I catch you in another dark alley soon, but you better be wearing Bloodhound red, because your ass is my fucking own private cum sock from now on, understand?” Carla manages to growl out between devastating thrusts. “Yes, mistress,” the suddenly well-behaved thug moans. She begins letting out the unmistakable sounds of an imminent climax.

“And if you don’t stop braining people with a pipe wrench in my goddamn city, you’re never getting used again,” Carla says, her own voice beginning to crack with the first stirrings of orgasm. “Do something useful with yourself, or I’m going to leave you to get fucked by all your pencil-dick friends and you’re never going to get it this good again. You hear me, cumbucket?”

Through gritted teeth, it takes Carla’s new toy almost seven seconds to get out another “Yes, mistress.” With one last thrust to the hilt, Carla’s legs jerk in a handful of jumps that signal the pulses of the load she’s sending at the speed of sound up her new buddy’s ass. To maintain her gruff demeanor, she barely lets any moans of pleasure escape her lips, but the body language her sex doll can’t see says everything about the mind-blowing release that just rocked her every muscle.

“Get dressed and go home, butt slut,” Carla says, pulling her entire length out of the girl in one too-quick motion that makes a distinct “pop,” followed by a serious leak of thick semen out of this ruined hole. With Carla no longer propping her up, the punk’s legs are so weak she nearly falls over. I think she’s either still cumming, or experiencing a second wave of orgasm from the indignity of being instantly emptied and tossed aside with disgust like a human condom. Amused by this sight, Carla slaps her ass, not with violent force but something resembling affection. “Come to the alley behind the Quikshop at Foglio and 10th next Sunday at 11,” Carla says. “I’m not kidding about wearing red. And I’m bringing friends.”

“They just ran off?” I ask. “Typical. They usually don’t actually feel like getting their asses kicked for some psycho in a mask.” “With some exceptions,” Carla says, gesturing toward the girl who nearly jumped out of her skin when I finally walked into the light and spoke. “I’m guessing you took pretty good care of Honey Badger. One way or the other.”

The engine of the truck starts.

“Nevermind,” Carla says, fortunately having already put her cock back in her suit before she leaps into action. Before we can get to the cab of the truck, though, it’s moving at enough speed that we can’t catch up. Carla latches onto the side, but gets dragged along, unable to get sufficient purchase to do anything useful, and lets go. The truck hits a bump, causing one crate of the product to fall out, but also dropping the unsecured gate back into a closed position, keeping the rest inside as the vehicle gets to full speed.

“I would have absolutely gotten her,” I say, “but that second one just wiped me out.”

“Twice?” Carla inquires. “So you did fuck Debra again.”

“I did not fuck her,” I say, and then pause a bit too long. “But I do have something I want to try again soon.”

Regrouping at the Burrow, one of us sore and one quite relieved, Carla and I confer in the Nest over where to proceed from here. “I’m pretty sure I said this weeks ago,” Carla says, “but I think this one calls for Becky’s Angels.” I hate it when she calls them that. “I wasn’t opposed to that,” I say, “I just don’t think they trust me. And asking them to potentially cash in their last favors in the underworld is a big one.”

“Of course Diva trusts you,” Carla says, and immediately drops the pregnant pause she owed me from earlier. “Octavia definitely doesn’t, but Becky does.”

The trio she’s referring to are Diva, Mother Nature and Le Fou, reformed villains and lovers who maintain a support network for people leaving the life and sometimes taking back to the streets to take down the very worst of the city’s worst. Diva was once Becky Quinton, a victim of Fantome’s brainwashed into becoming her sidekick, but who clawed back her sense of self over years of Fantome’s callous treatment and became one of her fiercest enemies. Octavia Sprinkle was a botany grad student in the 60s who exposed herself to a substance that bonded her to the Earth itself, becoming the ageless ecoterrorist Mother Nature, who used her control over plant life to commit extraordinary crimes, and with that and her gift with manufacturing psychoactive substances she funded her anticorporate allies all over the world until Diva convinced her she could do just as much good without the deadly antics. The duo eventually found Le Fou, the product of an attempt by Fantome to “create another Diva,” but broken so severely she would never abandon her. The plan worked too well, and the wildly unstable Le Fou went on a rampage until Diva found a way to calm her down. Le Fou still has little memory of being Norma Pierrot, rather than the anarchic gremlin of terror she has become, but she has successfully applied her madness to the cause of justice.

“Lair” might be the wrong word, given their current status as heroes, but when Carla and I arrive at the trio’s…compound? We are greeted by Diva alone. “The girls are busy just this second,” she says, but the second we’re in the door we can very clearly hear sounds that indicate exactly what Octavia and Norma are busy doing. Diva deliberately lets a quiet moment pass to let their cries of pleasure echo around us. “Where are my manners? You two look quite…thirsty.” Diva is wearing her usual makeup, a circle of white around her face with perfectly round spots of blush on each cheek, but not her typical costume of a cigarette-girl puffy skirt and bustier on top of striped thigh-highs and wildly impractical heels. From the neck up, she’s perfectly gussied up in her makeup, her bob hairdo and her pillbox usherette hat. Apart from that, she’s lounging in a too-small white t-shirt, boxers and white knee socks. In ascending order of likelihood, I’d guess she’s just getting home, she’s about to go out, or she just always dresses like this around the house.

“We’re not here for that,” Carla says, but in a conciliatory tone that carries an implicit “maybe later.” “We need to dig up anything you guys can about Idol,” I interject. “She’s shipping some new drug around the city. It’s basically powdered arousal, we actually got hit with some not long ago ourselves.”

“What happened?” Diva giddily asks. “I mean, you’ve stuck it in every costumed mook in this city already, haven’t you?” “My reputation is at least a little exaggerated,” I say. “C’mon,” Diva says, “you’ve gotten up Octavia twice and she doesn’t even really like you.”

“Do you guys know anything?” I say. “People she deals with in chemical matters? People she might be selling to? Cleopatra got her hands on this stuff, so we can only assume everybody’s got it.” “Liz is a little sharper than you give her credit for,” Diva says. “She plays the ditzy gimmick kook because she’s trying to get you into bed. She could be a whole lot scarier if she wanted to.” She paused for a second, this time seemingly to think, but with the same overall effect of making us listen to her girlfriends humping furiously twenty feet away.

“Octavia hasn’t sold her product through Idol or anybody like her in ages,” Diva says. “But when she did, she knew just about everybody.” Diva opens the door she’s leaning against. “O, you’ve got guests. They need the dope on Idol’s dope.” Diva waves us into the room, despite the activities happening inside. “It’s alright, we’re all basically friends here. Not much here you two haven’t seen before.”

Carla and I reluctantly enter, and Le Fou is lying on her back on a mattress on the floor while Mother Nature’s ample ass pounds her also-considerable dick into Fou’s ass. Norma’s legs wag in the air with mad exuberance, begging her partner to keep up the punishing intensity of her thrusts. Fou’s perky but sizable breasts look absolutely huge on her skinny frame, as does her long but thin prick. Octavia’s body is more notable in this business of gymnastic waifs and muscular bruisers. Nobody in their right mind would call her fat, but she’s a plump arrangement of pronounced curves all over. Her waist is hardly svelte, her soft, smooth belly having just the slightly amount of bulge to it, but she still manages a jaw-dropping hourglass with her wide hips, strong thighs and beach-ball ass on one side and her breasts on the other. Hers are not perky. They hang with definite gravity, not sagging as with age but simply as a consequence of their sheer scale. Even on her 5’11’’ body and laid against her broad, curvaceous figure, they jut out from her wide shoulders like ripe watermelons off the vine. Her dense, distinctively silver hair is always woven into long, thick braids that hang well past her colossal butt. Her pale skin, once bearing undertones of healthy red and pink, took on a green tinge when she had her transfiguration, leaving her the color of Death’s horse, but not touching her generous sprinkling of freckles. Around her collarbones, down her arms and dotting her flanks, she wears a greatest-hits assortment of every tattoo people were getting when she was in college, all new-age stars and astrological symbols, cartoon hearts and flying birds. Her hippie earth-mother vibe masks her serious, sometimes icy practicality, but Diva and Le Fou would tell you she actually does have a loving warmth with the few people she can tolerate. Maybe if you were in tune with the Earth, you’d be angry too.

Octavia’s controlled posture, her back ruler-straight as she delivers forceful but controlled motions with her hips, begins to melt, lowering her upper half and supporting herself with her hands as her movements quicken. She’s getting close. “I don’t sell to anybody who works with Idol anymore,” she grunts between thundering drops of her pelvis. “And she’s not really in the mind-expanding business. Her people are cooking up all kinds of demented shit.”

As Octavia lowers over her, Le Fou wraps her arms anxiously around the back of her womanly conqueror and starts giggling incessantly. Her legs follow, tightening as best they can around Mother Nature’s titanic hind. Octavia’s hip work becomes less steady, more sloppy and desperate and bunny-quick, as she does everything she can to crest that wave. Her face drops abruptly to mash their lips into a ravenous kiss as she begins moaning with intention, her hips giving a few last, slow thrusts as she erupts. “That was a good one,” Diva whispers to us, “they’ve literally been going at it for like two hours. O likes to do the whole tantric whatever and draw it out for ages, but once it gets hard to hold back she gets a little impatient and she usually just lets it rip.”

Octavia looks exhausted, but Fou keeps grinding her own hips against her lover’s plush flesh. She hasn’t had her turn yet. Once Octavia catches her breath, she rolls off of Norma, who quickly gets up and sits in an overstuffed chair near the “bed.” Octavia gets onto her knees before her, lifting with non-negligible effort her mythic breasts to wrap them around Norma’s cock. Norma starts cackling with delight immediately. Looking directly at us, she says, “I’d lose my ooze between Green’s Halloween pumpkins over anywhere in the world.” She calls her “Green,” and she calls the scarlet-clad Diva “Red.” “She says we’re her Christmas presents,” Diva once told me.

Octavia’s back is toward me as she gets to work, but whatever she’s doing is making Le Fou have absolute fits. Her manic laughter is quickly cut fifty-fifty with gasps and moans, and she lets out an ear-splitting howl when the moment arrives quite quickly. A strand of bright white flies well over Octavia’s head, the rest landing nowhere I could see. “I just wish it could last forever and ever,” Norma sighs. Octavia stands and turns to face us, revealing where the rest of Norma’s generous dose landed, a few ropes clinging to the lower half of her face, but most of it a liquid smear across the top of her cleavage. “I’ve been out of the life for a while now,” Octavia says as she wipes herself off with her hand, licking the mess off her fingers with every pause as she speaks. “But there are a couple ladies I can think of who got out of this thing of ours a little more recently. They both worked with that evil cunt pretty often.”

“I popped off pretty quick,” Norma butts in. “You oughta give one of our guests your patented smush so I can see you really get to work.” She hops out of her chair and pats the seat expectantly. “Trust me, gals, you’re in for the ride of your lives.” With a slight shrug, Octavia says, “You might never get this offer again, but why not?” I shoot Carla a glance, and she is sending a nearly identical one my way. “I’m guessing you’re not interested,” she says. “But it would be rude to say no, right?”

Carla sits in the chair, a very excited Norma rubbing her shoulders like she’s prepping Carla for a boxing match. “I never get to watch this supernova go off,” she says, “this’ll be a hell of a show.” As Octavia gets back on her knees, I step around so that I’m seeing the two of them from the side, pointed mostly toward Octavia, ostensibly to facilitate conversation, but I had no intention of having anything but front-row seats to this spectacle. Norma’s respectable but unremarkable tool must get swallowed whole by Octavia’s cleavage, which sounds luxurious in its own way, but even Mother Nature’s fertility goddess tits need to actually move to stroke the mighty Bloodhound from end to end.

Carla’s “hound dog” springs into action with full vigor the moment Octavia’s rack is close enough for her to register its true scale. Even if I were the jealous type, I’d understand the reaction. “Sharkbait used to be a big time enforcer for some of Idol’s less psychotic associates,” Octavia casually states as she grasps Carla in her velvet vice, “she can fuck somebody up, but even then she preferred to get by on looking scary. She’s just a big kitten at heart.” I’ll tell that to the long, jagged scar down Charlie’s chest, but sure. Carla’s heels repeatedly strike the floor, her legs involuntarily kicking as her hands tightly grip the arms of the chair. Octavia does not need to put nearly as much effort and skill into the avalanche of delicious flesh she’s dropping onto Carla as she is, pushing in with her whole forearms to create a solid mass of pleasure around Carla’s cock. She could just lay them on Carla’s lap and give a flirtatious shimmy and coax an eye-crossing orgasm out of her.

“She’s probably still got a lot of connections to people in the game,” Octavia continues without pausing her expert service for a second. “Gamekeeper was deep into Idol’s outfit too,” she says, unfazed by the panting and squirming of Carla right in front of her, “she was the only one with the reach to get to her when she was in jail. She did a lot of support work from the inside.” “This one likes you,” Le Fou tittered, “she’s getting all squiggly. Ms. Green is real comfy, isn’t she?”

“You’re right,” Carla purrs to Le Fou, “I want this to last forever, but…” Carla gasps, clenching her teeth and shutting her eyes tight. “She’s gonna lose it,” Fou says with a mile-wide grin, hands wandering down to cup Carla’s breasts. “She’s gonna bust wide open.” “It’s alright, sweetie,” Octavia says, “nobody holds up to the Mother Nature special for long.” Carla’s white-knuckle grip on the chair tightens, her breathing accelerating. “Aww, she wants to stay,” Octavia snickers, “that’s adorable. You know, if you always make those faces and those noises, I’ll let you have this any time. You can even bring the narc in the fox outfit, I think she likes to watch.”

Carla’s in it now. She wants to milk every second out of this she can, but Octavia is equally determined to milk her. “Do you need permission?” Octavia says, a wicked smile coming over her. “Three,” she says. Carla knows she’s beat. “Two.” Carla sinks into the chair, ready to let fly. “One…” Octavia moans.

“…do it.” She does.

Carla lets out an absolute geyser, dousing Octavia’s cleavage with a lagoon pooled between her breasts as she maintains a firm grip all throughout Carla’s climax. Her face beams with glee, taking great pride in her singular abilities. “You know, I really want to see what Ellie Ness over here looks like when she drops the G-woman act and busts a nut,” Octavia says. “Think you can handle these?”

“I just got queened by Honey Badger in a warehouse while my wife rearranged a street punk’s colon, and I watched,” I say. “I’m not exactly on a scouting jamboree.”

“What the fuck?” Diva says through a mouthful of toothpaste, evidently having slipped out to the bathroom when we weren’t looking and returned to see her girlfriend lapping my exhausted wife’s semen out of the swimming pool between her tits. “Nobody thought I’d want to see you titfuck that beast? Some friends you are!”

“If you go see Sharkbait,” Octavia says as she wipes herself off, “bring your little Sparrow. She can’t say no to a pretty face.”

“She didn’t treat my last Sparrow too kindly,” I say. “Trust me,” Octavia says, “if you don’t piss her off, she’s a teddy bear.”

The next night, Carla and Kelly accompany me to the address Diva gave me for Sharkbait. Jenny Bruce’s origins are a bit vague. She claims to have been the product of a sinister government experiment, and that’s as good an explanation as any. She’s a humanoid shark, and below the neck the emphasis is quite sharply on “humanoid,” and then some. She’s about 6’8’’ and built like a gold-medal weightlifter, but otherwise proportioned in a way that emphasizes how mammalian she really is. That’s actually what led her away from her life as brutal muscle for a bunch of B-list crime bosses. She discovered over time that plenty of people were very much into her mix of flawless human form and intriguingly inhuman form, and makes a decent living selling porn of herself online and, allegedly, taking some very lucrative escort work. I’ve never been there myself, so to speak, but she’s certainly sexy in her unique way.

We knock on the door, and a great white with jugs like volleyballs opens the door holding a sawed-off shotgun. “The fuck are you doing here?” she roars. Diva told us she was going to call ahead, but reliability is not her best feature. “Diva and Mother Nature sent us here to talk about Idol. She says you might know some people,” I say. “Sure, let’s discuss my famous willingness to rat on my good friends right here in the street,” she retorts. “Get your asses in here.” “You’re not hosting an orgy in the next room, are you?” Carla says. “If only,” Jenny says. “Make a good video if you girls need some cash, though.”

Diva and her girls had a mattress on the floor, but I’m fairly certain that was just a room where they could defile each other with impunity without getting fluids of various sorts all over their actual beds. Jenny’s place makes their squat look like a penthouse. “Would’ve cleaned if I’d known I had company,” she quips, leading me to believe I might have been showing more of my reaction on my face than I believed. “What exactly are you angling for?”

Was that a pun?

“Idol is shipping some kind of aphrodisiac drug around the city in huge quantities,” Carla says. “Know anybody she might be buying from or selling to?” I ask. “I might, and they all value their privacy very highly,” Jenny says. “However,” she teases, “I might know a few more principled dealers in chemical recreation that don’t take kindly to the love potion racket. A little date-rapey for their liking. They still work with Idol and her posse, and I could give you their names if you’re capable of being discreet.” “That’s great,” Kelly says. “Where can we find them?”

“I said ‘could,’” Jenny says. “I haven’t set a price yet.” “I’d give you money just to get you into a decent apartment,” I say, to which she, perhaps justifiably, takes offense. “I don’t want charity,” she says. “I’m glad just to get some magic roofie powder off the streets. But I’d also appreciate the companionship of your lady, y’know, to show me we can all trust each other. It’s no secret you guys all share.”

“That’s not a problem for me,” Carla says. “I’m flattered,” Jenny says, “but I meant the sidekick. That tight, skimpy little Sparrow costume always got me going.”

“After what you did to the last Sparrow,” I say, “that’s a bit rich.” “That little psycho damn near killed me first,” she says. I wasn’t there, and for all I know she’s right. Charlie was a little bellicose even before her Blood Eagle days.

“I don’t have any problem with that either,” Kelly says. There’s a slightly flustered tone to her voice that calls attention to how she’s looking at Jenny’s impressive figure.

“I’m not trading sexual favors for intel on a serious crime,” I say. “It’s sleazy,” Carla says, “but it’s also Sparrow’s decision as far as I’m concerned.”

Jenny lays her arm around Kelly’s shoulders, pulling her in for a “hug” that takes great advantage of Kelly being eye-level to Jenny’s prodigious rack. “It sounds like she’s saying ‘hell yes’ to me, Foxy Lady,” Jenny says. “Why not?” Kelly says, muffled a bit by Jenny’s bobbing buoys. Jenny releases her pectoral prisoner and sticks her thumbs under the straps of her costume. Her “costume,” of course, is just a hot pink high-cut one-piece swimsuit straight out of 1990, because you don’t need to go around the world for a look when you’re a talking landshark.

“Well,” I say, “I guess we’ll leave you to it.” “Why bother?” Jenny says, pulling her suit down to free her ample floatation devices. “I want you two to see exactly how willing your little friend is to get on the Jaws ride. You want me to trust you, let’s see what this free love thing you guys are into is all about.” Her suit drops to the floor, revealing what it clearly internal genitalia between her legs, but not any I’ve seen on another human being. Fully nude, though, she is still a sight to behold, carrying a warm layer of blubber over much of her body but clearly backed with superhuman musculature. I do have to say I’m tempted myself.

Kelly goes to remove her suit, and Jenny stops her. “Leave it on,” she says. “As much of it as you can. Just take out what you need for out little marine biology lesson. I can see it’s already good to go.” Kelly pulls the crotch of her suit to the side. “Ooh,” Jenny says, “it’s not as dainty as I expected but it’s still so cute.” “Do you want me to just…” Kelly asks. “It’s very wet in the ocean,” Jenny reassures her.

Jenny simply reclines slightly, standing, against the counter of her dilapidated kitchenette, legs apart. Kelly is a good deal shorter, though, so Jenny bends her knees until things line up.

“Do we just…stand here?” Carla asks. “Sitting on the couch seems to lack a certain gravitas,” I say. “Actually, I think I have a better place to stand,” she replies, moving toward the fumbling couple to lean against the fridge, only a few feet away, watching intently. I do not move, willing to permit this farce but not willing to endorse it.

Kelly gets the right angle and enters Jenny, delicately at first but falling forward, planting herself to the hilt, when she encounters not only a lack of resistance but a near-magnetic pull. “Oh fuck,” Kelly blurts out. “You’re getting a rare treat,” Jenny says. “I’m told I’m pretty special up there.” Kelly tries to say something else, but it comes out as high-pitched panting as she begins to thrust at a visibly quickening pace.

“God damn,” Jenny says, “you’re pretty nice yourself. Whatever I have for a g-spot in there, you’re just the right size to hit the bullseye.” Kelly wraps her arms around Jenny’s waist, burying her face in the shark-woman’s impressive chest, drawing so close that her thrusts become shallower, but the short distance makes her already rapid motion even more frantic. Given what Jenny said about how they fit together, it’s not surprising Jenny’s usually inscrutable face starts to show serious signs of benthic bliss.

“Oh fuck,” she says, “I’m keeping this one. She jackhammers like a virgin, but I think she’s madly in love with me. And whatever she’s hitting is really doing the trick.” Kelly’s mammary-muffled noises start to become louder, her knees beginning to wobble. “This fun-size candy bar in a leotard is gonna m-m-“

Kelly wails from between Jenny’s breasts, and her movements abruptly halt to a handful more solid thrusts. Not just wrapped up in the moment anymore, she now holds onto her catch of the day just to stay upright. “That…” Kelly whimpers. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.” I think she might be crying.

Jenny stares straight ahead, clearly trying to conceal disappointment. “That’s good to hear, babe,” she says unconvincingly, patting Kelly on the back. “You’re real cute.”

“Oh my God,” Kelly says. “I’m so sorry, did you not…”

“It’s alright,” Jenny says. “That was…that was fun.”

I’m uncertain that bit of fun cracked two minutes.

Kelly drags a finger down Jenny’s stomach, her glistening skin seeming like it must be either very rough or very smooth. “I really thought I could get you there, you were so close,” Kelly says. “I was very, very close,” Jenny says. “So very close.” “I just couldn’t hold back,” Kelly says. “You’re…you are so sexy.” “I appreciate that,” Jenny says.

My eyes turn toward Carla, who is staring right at me in a manner that says “I’ve been looking right at you this whole time.” “You know,” she says, “that thing with Mother Nature was mind-blowing. I think it’s your turn to sample a little bit of exotic.”

Jenny lets out a laugh that ranks among the most villainous I’ve heard, and I am perhaps the world’s foremost expert on evil laughs. “You three have no idea how much I’d love to be able to say I conquered the patron saint of New London.” “Everybody we meet either thinks I’m a cloistered nun,” I say, “or that I’ve slid it up every costumed snatch in the state. I have a healthy sex life, and a…handful, of adoring lovers, for whom I care deeply. No more, no less.”

“You do have big hands,” Carla adds unhelpfully.

“It sounds like two of the lovers in your heaping handful want to watch you fuck a shark lady,” Jenny says, “and if I get a vote then it’s unanimous.”

I detach the clever breakaway crotch panel of my suit, thanks Catherine, and let free a member that is not entirely risen but certainly shows interest. I march forward at a determined pace, and stand between Sharkbait’s legs furiously readying myself. Kelly drops to her knees, plopping my head into her mouth. Not wishing to degrade my admittedly eager partner further, I initially ignore her and continue my manual override, but quickly concede and let her do the work herself. Stirred by her apparently revelatory experience with Jenny, she wrangles a bit more of me into her mouth than she’s ever managed before. Pushing herself to that limit demonstrates some of the weaknesses in her technique, making things a little toothy, but the sight of her overachieving feat is enough to get me rock-solid in itself. Kelly slowly withdraws, grabbing me at the base with her hand, and lovingly guides me into Jenny’s inviting shark trap.

The sensation of Jenny’s mutant orifice is definitely distinctive. Its slickness seems unattributable to simple secretions, making me believe that her texture itself is smoother than normal, in contrast to her coarse outer skin. Because of this frictionless glide, I don’t notice until I’m fully involved how tight she is. Once I’m all the way in, I retract for a full-speed thrust, and once I’m giving it a proper go I realize that Kelly’s little “emergency landing” was not simply down to nerves, or inexperience, or the sensual strength of Jenny’s soft but sculpted body pushing her buttons. This really is another level. I’m mildly amazed Kelly actually managed to last as long as she did. She must have been quite devoted indeed to satisfying her maritime mistress. I close my eyes, not because I’m already losing control quite yet, but because seeing Jenny’s incredible figure would make it even more difficult to keep my lightning in the bottle. I think I always felt moderately perverse allowing myself to see Jenny as a sexual being, but that was as unnecessary as it was delusional. She’s a human being, under the sharp teeth and the gills, and she’s an absolutely stunning one, radiating great power and raw sex all at once.

“Oh fuck,” Jenny says, “if you leave me on the edge again, I’m going to snap you in half, but you’re getting there.”

Just a bit longer, Zora. You can do this. You’re just balls deep in the most exquisite cunt you’ve ever felt, sitting between the legs of a superhuman beast-woman with the body of a goddess. This is Superhero 101.

I feel Jenny orgasm before I hear it, and if I hadn’t already been skirting the line, the sudden contractions of Jenny’s pussy as the climax took hold of her would have taken me from zero to sixty anyway. Her grunts are suitably animalistic and guttural, except that once I gain slightly more control over my basic faculties I realize those were the noises I was making. Almost unable to move, Jenny, clearly giddy not just with release but with the sight of my total abandon, lens down a bit to whisper in my ear. “What do you get when you cross a fox with a shark?” she asks. “I guess we’ll find out in nine months, mommy.”

I sputter and stammer, trying to get out a sharp “What?” Jenny laughs. “The pill works on me just fine, you big baby. If it didn’t, I’d have an Olympic-size pool of Little Jennies crammed into my five-by-five yard.”

“Fucking hell,” Carla says, “these drug dealers we’re about to meet better be washouts from the Russian gymnastics team, or pleasure androids from Titan. I don’t think I’m gonna drop a load like that when it’s my turn again.”

“The connection is three chicks name Polly, Inez and Layla,” Jenny says. “If you show up to their shop, they will not display the level of trigger discipline I did, but they’ll be less edgy about unexpected visitors if you find them at home. Nobody knows where they live except a couple people they really trust. Maybe send somebody less Jo Friday than Outfox and her Bloodhound. Have Diva or one of them do it. She knocks on the door, says Jenny sent her, they won’t hassle her. They’ll probably be helpful.”

“Where do they live?” Carla asks. “3624 Hartley Plaza,” Jenny says, causing Carla to nearly give herself a black eye dropping her head into her hands. “You’re sure that’s the address?” she says. “Yeah, I’ve been there lots of times. Plenty of people like the idea of doing shrooms with a talking shark.”

“The apartment blocks at Hartley Plaza, between 53rd and Canyons? Those have been torn down for over a year,” I say. Jenny is quiet for nearly six seconds before letting out a hair-raisingly loud “Fuck!”

“Do you know anybody else who might know where they are?” Kelly asks. “Nobody who’s going to talk to a bunch of capes,” Jenny says, “maybe not even your showgirl friend, her hippie top and her pet gremlin.” “So who do we go to now?” I ask Carla. “The only other name they gave us was Gamekeeper.” “Oh shit, Gamekeeper?” Jenny says. “That’s all you had to say. As long as she’s willing to play ball. She used to have a serious adderall thing, she definitely knows the stoner club. But is she going to talk to the people her goddamn daughter left her for?”

“Things are a little chilly,” I admit, “but those hard feelings only go one way. She’d be delighted to get her daughter back. And nobody really buys her good-guy act, so she’s always tried to stay in my good books.” “Parker is definitely straight-and-narrow now,” Jenny says. “She’s almost annoyingly perfect and proper.” “I believe her completely,” I say, “but we seem to be alone in that.”

On the way out, Jenny pulls Kelly aside. “You’ll remember how to get here, right?” she asks. “Any time you want, we can ‘work on your stamina.’ Just keep hitting that spot, sweet cheeks.” Kelly lets out a bashful giggle, but plants a very unabashed hand on Jenny’s wondrous ass. “I might be able to do that,” she says.


End file.
